


remember me love (when i'm reborn)

by TheSerpentsTooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, M/M, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, but its still really complicated, georgie and martin deserve to be friends, they get the gertrude tape to the s1 gang, two martins! and two georgies!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:09:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26206186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSerpentsTooth/pseuds/TheSerpentsTooth
Summary: Statement of- shit.Statement of Martin Blackwood, regarding his journey- his journey through the Distortion. Statement taken from subject March 2nd, 2016.---Martin and Georgie finally get Gertrude's tape to its intended recipient.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 15
Kudos: 107





	remember me love (when i'm reborn)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Shrike by Hozier! 
> 
> Time travel fix-it fic but its Martin and Georgie time travelling, and the 'fix' is. Complicated. It turns out it's hard to fix everything.
> 
> Let me know what you think!

There has never been a yellow wooden door into Jon’s office before. 

There still is not a yellow wooden door into Jon’s office now. 

Of course there isn’t, where would it lead? That’s an exterior wall. In a basement. There is no room on the other side, so therefore there would not be a door there. 

And there isn’t.

But there it is. 

A seven foot tall yellow wooden door with six panels and a black round handle. It fits the wall just as much as it stands out from the eggshell paint and classic light brown trim. It doesn’t match the decor at all, but it seems so at home there, uncomfortably close to the set of shelves that Jon keeps meaning to organize.

Jonathan Sims is not a brave man, nor is he a foolish man. He is not going to approach that door. There couldn’t be anything to see behind it anyway, right? Nothing worth the trouble. 

He’s almost convinced himself of that by the time the door flies open, rattling its bronze hinges. For a moment, Jon thinks the force must have torn the door that has never been there clear off the wall, but when he looks up, it remains. 

There is a man, strange and familiar all at once, standing tall and alert just inside the door frame. He scans the room with a wild desperation in his eyes. They’re too light. His eyes are the wrong color, drained and gray. His hair is the same way, a bleached sort of strawberry blond where it’s meant to be a deep gingery color. He has scars, just a few, and he looks like he’s been run ragged. He staggers in, walking further into the room a few steps. 

His hands are spasming, seeking some kind of purchase, and he finds it with the weak shelves stacked tall with papers and files and theories. They creak ominously as he trusts his weight to them. 

Jon is standing, though he wouldn’t be able to place when that happened. He is half reaching out, a reflexive motion as this man nearly falls to his knees across the room. 

“Martin?”

Jon sounds hesitant to his own ears, but this man who is inexplicably Martin reacts massively. His face splits in two with the force of his grin, and he is laughing. It’s quiet at first, but builds until Martin really has sunk to his knees, bent over with the force of the laughter that is sounding more and more like sobs every second. 

Jon takes a few cautious steps closer. “Martin? I thought you were, that is, you texted saying you were-”

“I texted?” Martin says abruptly. His voice sounds hoarse, and Jon’s throat twinges in sympathy. 

“That you were sick?” Martin rarely texts Jon, always preferring to stammer through his thought processes in person. It had been surprising, and an annoyance, to receive the news that way, but Jon’s attempts at calling him to be a little bit more official just lead to more apologetic texts. And if anyone was going to get debilitatingly sick after failing to add anything to an investigation, well. It wasn’t going to be Sasha. 

“I’m sick?” Martin asks. He looks like he could be sick. He looks confused, distracted. He looks like he needs to sleep for the next few weeks straight. Not to mention how pale he is. 

And then his eyes widen. “I’m sick! How long?”

Jon steps back. “I’m sorry?”

“How long, Jon?” Martin gets to his feet and steps forward. “How long have I been sick?”

Jon stutters for a moment before eventually getting out, “Four days.” 

Martin’s legs are shaking. When he realizes, he lifts his hands to confirm that they are also shaking. His breath is coming fast. 

Jon steps forward. Martin doesn’t notice. His pale eyes are fixed on his trembling fingers. 

He says something, too quiet for Jon to hear, but begins repeating it like a mantra. Like an invocation. Eventually Jon is close enough to catch it.

Ever so softly, Martin is whispering, “We’re late.” 

He keeps repeating right up until the door, open this whole time, slams shut. The hinges creak and protest the whole way, but the door settles shut with a self satisfied _click_. Hearing this, Martin speaks up. 

“Georgie, we’re _late_.”

“Sorry? What kind of late?” Jon knows that voice. 

He turns to see the tall, lean figure of Georgie Barker standing against the eggshell wall of his office where there is not and never has been a yellow wooden door. Her broad shoulders are held confidently about her, and she looks calm. Collected. The only signs that she is anything less than totally fine are the deep set bags under her eyes like bruises, the stray curls that have come loose from her ponytail, and the raw skin around her fingernails that she’s been picking and prying at. 

Jon hasn’t seen her in years, but there she is. Standing in his office. Emerging from a door that vanished as soon as it closed behind her. 

“We need to get to my flat right now!” Martin is yelling. Jon has never seen him like this, frantic and desperate and determined. There is such an edge to him, Jon has the oddest feeling that he could cut himself if he gets too close. 

“Oh,” Georgie says. “That kind of late.”

“Yes, that kind of late! Why are you so calm?!”

“Forgive me a little bit of relief, you made it sound like we’d walked right into a parallel apocalypse, Martin!” 

“Well they’re already on their way!”

“Hm. Doesn’t really seem like it.”

She doesn’t look concerned. She begins fixing her loose curls, in no kind of rush. Then, finally, she seems to notice Jon is there. Georgie smiles. 

“Oh, Martin,” She breathes. “His eyes.” 

“Yes, yes,” Martin says. “I know, I know. We have to _go_ , Georgie. I cannot _believe_ we’re so late!” 

“When even are we?” Georgie looks around the room a moment, and doesn’t find whatever she’s looking for. 

She turns to Jon, who is now back in his chair, back pressed against it as far as he can. “Jon?”

“...yes?” 

“When are we?”

“You’re in the Magnus Institute, in the Archives.” 

“No, Jon, not where, _when_.”

“March 2.”

Georgie hums, turns back to Martin who is, for all his blustering, still rooted in place. “2016?” 

“Yes, 2016, look at him!”

“I didn’t see him in 2016, Martin!” 

Martin sputters and spins in a tight circle. He doesn’t come up with a suitable answer, and instead starts walking towards the door that has always led in and out of Jon’s office. 

Georgie grins. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” 

Martin freezes. “The CO2 extinguishers are out in the Archives. We can pick up more on the way if we have to.”

“With what money? Did you hold onto your wallet?”

Jon finds himself just looking back and forth between them, taking in Martin’s defensive stance and Georgie’s casual posture. He wants to interject but has no idea what he would say. 

“We can’t even call anyone, Martin,” Georgie says. “There’s no need to storm out so quickly.”

“I’m stuck in there alone!” Martin yells, whirling to face her. 

“You’re not, though. You’re here. He’ll be ok, you were. At the very least, he can wait a few more days.”

Martin opens his mouth to respond, but Georgie doesn’t give him the chance. “We didn’t come here just so you could get eaten by worms on day one. I didn’t leave them there so you could go on a suicide mission and waste the _one_ chance we have.” 

“You didn’t leave them there! They had to-”

“Martin.” 

Hearing Jon’s voice, Martin fall silent. His eyes shut tight, but his tense shoulders dropped. 

Jon leans forward in his chair. “What is going on?” 

Martin fishes around in the pocket of his sweatshirt. He finds what he’s looking for and walks to Jon’s desk. “Brought you something.” 

What he sets down is a tape recorder, loaded with an unlabeled tape. “You’ll want to listen to this, probably with all the others.”

Jon reaches out and closes a hand around the recorder. “They aren’t here, they went home for the day. It’s nearly 7:00.”

“Jon-” Georgie started scolding, but this time it was Martin who interrupted.

“That’s brilliant, actually.” He turned back around. “I’m gonna go have a lie down.” 

And then Martin, this man who answered to Martin and was definitely Martin just as clearly as he wasn’t Martin at all, was gone, right through the oak office door. 

Georgie pulls the lonely folding chair out from the corner and sets it in front of Jon’s desk. She flings herself across it, somehow managing to drape her body across a chair with no supports. 

“Sorry about him. I’m putting off my breakdown until it’s a little bit more convenient, but it seems he’s decided to have his now.” 

Jon sets his forehead on his desk. “Georgie?” He asks warily. “What is happening?” 

His inflection is monotone, measured. His breathing is so even it is clearly being counted. In, 2, 3, 4. Out, 6, 7, 8. 

Georgie gently places a hand over his, watching him closely for a sign that he can’t handle human touch right now. When he stays perfectly still, she relaxes into it, and her fingers are a grounding weight over his. 

“Let’s start with the tape.” 

\-----

In the old document storage room where Martin Blackwood has never had to set down roots, a man sinks into the corner with his head in his hands. If he closes his eyes tight enough, he can pretend this is where he belongs.

He raises a tape recorder to his mouth and begins to speak. 

From the corners of the room, slow and patient and quietly inevitable, white fog curls towards him. 

\-----

It had been so easy, in the end. 

That makes it harder somehow. 

All they had to do was open the door. The monster who used to be a woman, used to be a human, used to be small and scared and soft and _something_ , had placed it for them. Not upright and flat on the ground, the way one would generally orient a door. With no walls or frame to place it, the door was placed at a haphazard angle. It was something that had to be stepped downwards into and leaned against.

Before, this kind of door would have led right back to the ground below it. There and then, it led to a deceptively plain corridor. Green carpet, pale yellow walls, nondescript but well tended houseplants every ten feet. 

Georgie had to step in first. She held Melanie’s hand until the last moment, when she had to let go to steady herself as she stepped in. Melanie leaned in close, said something into her girlfriend’s ear, and then stepped back. Neither of them looked happy, but there was something so confident between them. A kind of determination that they both carried. 

Jon had helped Martin in as best he could with Helen making very sure that no part of the Archivist touched her hallways. He kept asking questions to the very end. 

“Do you have the tape?”

“Yes, Jon.” 

“And blank tapes as well? And a recorder?”

“Of course, Jon.” 

“You remember everything you need to do? How it all went?” 

“And so does Georgie.” 

A long pause. Martin held both of Jon’s hands between his own. 

And then, for the first time since the end of the world, the Archivist closed his eyes. He placed his eyelids gently onto Martin’s hand, and turned his own hands so he could squeeze his wrists. 

“You want to do this?”

“I can do this, Jon.” 

“You _want_ to do this?” 

Martin could hear the effort he was putting in to make the question stay locked in his throat, in Martin’s ears. He wanted to Know, he wanted his question to reverberate through their chests and their minds, he wanted to open his eyes and See. But he would not. 

For this one moment, the Archivist was just a man. 

For this last moment, they were both so human it hurt. 

Martin leaned over to place a kiss into Jon’s hair. He turned his palms to hold Jon’s face between them, eyelids still closed and twitching.

“I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” 

Another moment passed. The Archivist’s eyes would open any moment, once again pinning the world under his unblinking, all knowing stare. 

“I want to do this.” 

As the ruined world churned beneath them, they both prayed he wasn’t lying. 

\-----

The morning of March 3rd is stupidly cold. Tim meets Sasha at the door of the Institute shivering in his fashionable peacoat and gently mocks her for her thick knitted scarf and gloves. He isn’t jealous in the slightest. He isn’t even cold, probably. Sasha is such a baby about the cold. 

She retaliates by sticking her frozen fingers on the back of his neck and laughing when he shrieks. 

“It echoed!” She whisper-yells as they run down the staircase towards the archives. “It echoed through the whole entry-”

“It was _your_ fault!” Tim responds in kind. “And now everyone thinks we’re _unprofessional_ , screaming like that in the workplace!” 

“Oh nooooo,” Sasha pulls on the back of his collar, making him stumble and almost miss a step. “Your _pristine_ reputation.”

“Yes, my _pristine_ reputation!” He mocks back, pulling open the door of the archives without looking in favor of making a very professional face at his esteemed colleague. “What will they all think of me now, think of the gossip, the rumor mills, I can never show my face in this town again- whoa, boss, are you okay? You look rough.” 

It’s an understatement by a long shot. He looks awful, like he hasn’t slept at all, and given that he’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday that’s mostly likely what happened. 

He stands in the doorway of his office, leaning with his head against the door frame, but his eyes are wide and fixed on the pair of them walking in. They almost miss the very pretty stranger fast asleep in Sasha’s chair, but Jon doesn’t give them a chance to address it. 

“Yes, yes, I’m quite alright. We have something very important to discuss.” 

\-----

Rosie Symanski does not ask questions. It is her foremost directive. 

No one told her she couldn’t ask questions, and if they had she probably would have fought it. Who are they to tell her what she can and can’t do with her voice and her mind? No, instead, she realized on her own that if she could keep herself from asking any questions, she might make it through this job to the other side. 

So Rosie doesn’t make a fuss. She doesn’t go where she isn’t explicitly told to. She doesn’t try to tease more information out of people. She doesn’t push. She doesn’t ask questions.

Rosie gives answers. 

Rosie knows when that appointment is, and where you should drop that package. She knows how to find that conference room and how many copies of that book are kept in the library. She knows where all the office supplies are stored and how to properly file every type of report. And she will never ask you why you need to know. 

Exhibit A: Martin Blackwood is approaching her desk. Mr. Blackwood has been out sick for five days now and is supposed to be out today as well.

The entire time Rosie has known Martin, he has had deep auburn curls that fall into his eyes, and thick sweaters with meticulously crafted cables that he wore even as temperatures climbed. His energy is always nervous, fidgety, impossibly polite. Occasionally they attempt to practice their Polish small talk on each other on mid-week winter days when no one else is bustling about to overhear. 

Martin Blackwood is approaching her desk with calm, assured steps. His hands are firmly in his pockets, and his sweatshirt has a tear at the neck and no strings left to tighten the hood. His eyes, always a darker blue, are nearly a pale gray, and his hair is practically blond. His freckles are gone. He looks faded, for lack of a better word. Rosie takes a deep breath, and focuses. 

“Martin,” she greets, all innocent smiles. “I see you’re back at work. It’s good to see you.” 

Martin pauses. He smiles. It’s wrong. “Hi, Rosie. Is Elias in?”

“Not yet! He’ll be in later than usual this morning,” Rosie says, leaning forward. “He was out early last night too.”

Martin side eyes her. She has expected a smile, or even that nervous fidgeting to come back. Instead, he is even more still. He looks upset. Not at Rosie, though. She thinks. “What for?” 

“Date night.” Rosie rolls her eyes. “I’m not here to question anyone’s taste.” 

“Date night?” Martin reels backwards. “With who? What?” 

Rosie raises an eyebrow. “They’re not talkative about it. And they’re off and on so often anyway, but Elias did have his ring on yesterday. I’ll let you know if he’s still got it on today after he comes back in, if you want.”

“But who?”

“He’s only come in a couple of times, you might not have seen him. It’s the guy who looks like a sea captain. Beard, coat, pipe, all of it. He’s actually an _Institute benefactor_.” It’s Rosie’s favorite piece of gossip. She rarely gets the chance to share it. 

Martin is clearly processing. His hands stay in his pockets, and his face is still. Then he snaps back to Rosie. “The Tundra is docked? Peter Lukas is in London, right now?” 

Rosie can feel her eyes glitter. People almost never ask the right questions. “Yes to both. Not for long, I don’t think. If the ring is off, I’d say only for another day or two.” 

“And if it’s on?” 

“Could be a week or could be six hours.”

“How do you know?”

“A week if Elias seems normal or snappy, six hours if he looks too proud of himself.” 

Martin sputters a bit, and Rosie finally recognizes him. “How many times has this happened?” 

“Eight.” 

Martin starts to ask another question but she beats him to the punch “ -in the five years I’ve been here. I don’t think they get actually divorced, if it’s worth anything. ” 

He blinks. And then blinks again. “Right. Well. Let me know about the ring, I suppose.” 

“I can shoot you a text.”

“No,” Martin says quickly. “No, just uh. Tell Jon.” 

“That’ll be weird with no context.” 

“Yep.” 

“Alright.” 

Martin walks away. Rosie calls after, “It was good seeing you!” 

Martin shoots a smile at her over his shoulder and keeps walking. His shoulders fold in, and his eyes trail along the floor as he goes. Rosie goes back to work. 

The portrait of Saint Anthony on her desk blinks. Rosie blinks back, and writes another email. 

\-----

_Statement of-_

_Shit._

_Statement of Martin Blackwood, regarding his journey- his journey through the Distortion. Statement taken from subject March 2nd, 2016._

_It was… bad. Jon, it was bad. It hurt, and I couldn’t stop crying, and Georgie barely looked bothered the whole time. I’ve been in them before, you know? With Tim. But this time felt different. It felt worse. I don’t know if it’s because the Spiral was stronger there, in the After? Or if it’s because we were trying to go somewhere, and somewhere hard to get to._

_It felt like weeks, I think. I guess I don’t really know how it felt. It felt bad. Really bad._

_We made it though. We’re here._

_You’re here too. It’s not really you though. It’s not really any of it._

_We’re a little bit late, Martin is stuck in his flat right now with Prentiss at the door. I’m sorry we couldn’t make it to before you took the title. I wanted to save you from it. I know you couldn’t quit even before, but-_

_I don’t know._

_I’m so sorry, Jon. I hope you’re okay._

_I love you._

**Author's Note:**

> lots of plans!!!! 
> 
> lots of. hurting martin plans. to be honest. but there's a light at the end of the tunnel, you know?


End file.
